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‘It’s understandable.’ Mike covers my hand with his. ‘He’s a great bloke, Janie. I mean that sincerely.’
‘I know you do.’
Then we hear Dominic’s key in the lock – something else he can’t quite get used to having to do.
‘In here!’ I shout and seconds later, he appears in the kitchen.
‘Jambo. Hello.’ He nods to Mike and I’m glad to see that his trademark grin is back in place. ‘I have bought the newspaper.’ The Sunday Times is tucked under his arm. He seems pleased by this small achievement and I hope it’s because he feels as if he’s becoming integrated in the village. ‘Mrs Appleby told me that this is the best one.’ He puts it on the table.
‘Great,’ I say.
‘Also, I have brought gifts from Mrs Duston.’
Dominic is carrying a wicker basket and there’s a red and white gingham cloth draped over the top of it. I peak inside. ‘Home-baked?’
‘Oh, yes.’
In the basket there’s a crusty loaf, still warm, and half a dozen muffins. It’s nice of her to think to recompense Dominic for his time and his kindness.
‘Ooo, they look delish. The smell is making me hungry again.’
‘Why don’t I stay and cook us lunch?’ Mike offers. ‘Dominic and I could do it together for you.’
‘I’m liking that idea.’
‘Are you up for that, Dominic?’
My lover looks uncertain.
‘Janie can sit and read the paper in peace while you and I knock something together? What have you got in the fridge?’
‘I was going to do a spag bol.’ No complicated cuisine in this house. Last night’s dinner exhausted my domestic goddess skills for the next six months.
‘I’m game.’ Mike looks encouragingly at Dominic.
My Maasai warrior shrugs his acceptance, but I sense a reluctance in his demeanour. I’m sure Mike will sort him out.
‘I’ll just go and throw some clothes on then,’ I say as cheerily as I can manage and then I leave the two men in my life to it.
Chapter Sixty-Seven
‘Ever eaten spaghetti bolognese, mate?’
Dominic shakes his head. ‘No. The cook used to make it in Kiihu camp for the tourists so I have seen it. But I have not tasted it.’
It seems so long ago that Dominic and I were there together that I let out an involuntary sigh. They both turn to look at me.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘Just daydreaming.’ I return to the paper and all the doom and gloom contained in its pages.
‘We’ll stick to the Mike Perry classic recipe if that’s OK with you.’
While I was upstairs getting dressed, Mike emptied the contents of my fridge out onto the work surface. There’s a pack of mince, one of bacon, some mushrooms, onions and a red pepper.
Dominic smiles his agreement.
‘We’ll get some herbs from the garden,’ Mike says as he picks up the scissors. He ushers Dominic to the door and out into the garden. ‘The selection isn’t brilliant at this time of year, but you can’t beat fresh herbs. I grow some myself.’
My herbs grow in an old stone trough that sits along the back wall of the house, a place that catches the best of the sun in the summer. They leave the door open and I should get up and close it, but the temptation to listen to their conversation is too strong. I’m trying not to watch either, but I can’t help it.
Mike hands over the kitchen scissors. Dominic stares at them, mesmerised. ‘This is thyme. You might know some of these. This is rosemary.’
I see Dominic lean close to Mike, but I have to strain to hear what he’s saying.
‘Mike,’ Dominic murmurs. ‘I am very worried.’
My neighbour raises his eyebrows.
‘Cooking, collecting the herbs, this is considered woman’s work,’ he continues quietly. ‘I do not want Janie Johnson to think that I am not a man.’
Mike sits on the low wall that separates the garden from the patio and beckons Dominic to join him, which he does. I bury my head in the newspaper and strain to listen.
‘It’s not the same here, mate,’ Mike says. ‘Women like a man who can cook. They go mad for them.’
Dominic laughs at that. ‘Then why have you not got a lovely wife?’
‘Well, not always,’ Mike concedes. ‘But in all honesty, there’s not much difference here between what a man does and what a woman does. Having said that, men tend to wash the cars and put petrol in them and take out the bins. Women usually do the washing and maybe the ironing, but that’s not always the case.’
‘You would wash and iron?’
‘Yeah. Can’t stand ironing, mind you. I live alone so I haven’t got anyone else to do my shirts.’
